


O Autumn! O Teakettle! O Grace!

by amanderjean



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: M/M, honestly that's pretty much it, imagine the smell of dead leaves and you're set, waxing poetic about October
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanderjean/pseuds/amanderjean
Summary: Technically October happens in California, but Link misses October. He misses orange and yellow and red trees blurring together as he drives through winding roads, the nip of cooling air all around him, the comforting sweet smell of decay, leaves sinking deep into the earth from whence they came. He misses the need for warmth from sweaters and hats and your best friend sitting beside you with frigid rocks underneath, chilling your backside. Written for the Rhink Fall Ficathon 2k16.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Rhink Fall Ficathon! I used the prompt:
> 
> “October, baptize me with leaves! Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me with split pea soup. October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins. O autumn! O teakettle! O grace!” - Rainbow Rowell, [Attachments](https://www.amazon.com/Attachments-Novel-Rainbow-Rowell/dp/0452297540)
> 
> Thanks as always to the incredibly lovely and encouraging [Pringlesaremydivision](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision) and [MythicallySnappy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicallySnappy/pseuds/MythicallySnappy) for being just the best, always. 
> 
> In case you couldn't tell, October is my favorite month.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction based on imagined renderings of real people, and is not meant to imply any actual knowledge of the beliefs, behaviors, or values of any of the characters mentioned.

On the morning of October 1st, Link slides into the passenger seat of the company car. He smiles at Rhett in the driver’s seat, no verbal exchange between them, no good mornings or good nights to interrupt their time together. They’re together even when they’re apart, these days. 

Rhett backs out of the driveway, one long arm around the back of Link’s seat, body twisted in a way that cannot be good for his back, tips of his hair brushing the roof of the car. Link rests his head against the back of the seat, breathing in deeply, trying not to breathe in the rush of cool air coming from the vents in the dashboard. It’s too warm for this time of year, doesn’t feel anything like fall should feel.

Every year, Link misses October. 

Technically October happens in California, but Link misses _October_. He misses orange and yellow and red trees blurring together as he drives through winding roads, the nip of cooling air all around him, the comforting sweet smell of decay, leaves sinking deep into the earth from whence they came. He misses the need for warmth from sweaters and hats and your best friend sitting beside you with frigid rocks underneath, chilling your backside. 

October happens in L.A., but it happens all wrong. 

It never gets cold. It cools, eventually, the hot damp sweat of relentless sun receding blessedly for a few months, but it never gets _cold_ , not even in the depths of winter. The first few years he pretended he was grateful, pretended that he didn't miss the chill in his bones and on the tip of his nose, that the dry winds and far-off smell of wildfires were preferable to the brisk air and dank rot of burning leaves. He wanted it to be, wanted California to be right, to be good enough, and missing anything meant they had made the wrong decision; it couldn’t be wrong, so it had to be enough. 

He knows better now. It was right, it is enough, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to ache for what he once had. 

Rhett was made for California. 

As soon as they danced across the line from Nevada to California, Link saw it. He saw the sun glinting off Rhett’s shining hair, warmth lifting his spirits as he swayed without music, the stillness of the desert air seeming to fill him with confidence and serenity. Rhett belonged in California, and that meant Link did, too. 

His acclimation to the west coast only increased the longer they stayed. To the weather, the sun and warm pacific water, yes, but Rhett knitted himself nearly seamlessly into the culture. He thrived in this world of laid-back openness, of individualistic live-and-let-live, of expanding your mind and reducing your waistline. In California Rhett was made of gold, skin and hair and heart; it released him of old biases and tensions and the prison of his own masculinity, made him stand at full height for the first time since Link had known him. Rhett was made for California, and it was enough. 

Link can know it's enough, and still miss the parts that used to be everything. 

He misses walking home from school in the brisk air, shoulders up to his ears, burrowing his chin and his hands into his warm coat. He misses coming home to tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches at the small, round table in the corner of his mother’s kitchen. If he really thinks about it, he can feel the steam from the soup on his face, which was probably what he liked about it, more than the soup itself. 

He misses the feeling of wearing his coat over his Halloween costume, no thought for the fact that no one could tell he who he was dressed like. He misses tearing between houses, bucket full of Twix and Skittles and so, so many Reese’s Cups clutched like the Holy Grail in his small fist, running after Rhett, whose legs were always longer but who never ran far enough ahead that Link couldn’t catch up. He misses the fake spiderwebs in the trees and the hollow faces carved in pumpkins, spooking him just enough to feel thrilled, but not afraid. He can still feel the rush from those expeditions, the roar of joy that occasionally lept from his chest, the warmth of Rhett’s hand in his as his friend’s excitement overrode the barriers between young boys. 

He misses walking in the woods, the paths obscured, covered thick with leaves. He misses the stillness and the silence, quiet in a way that Southern California will never be. Even the desert that Rhett slithers into like a hot-bellied lizard holds an eerie quiet that sets Link on edge. He doesn’t like the desert; in the desert there’s nowhere to hide, no towering Cypress to shield him from dangers and the sharp gazes of predators. He misses the forest, the way the ground was never dry in October, as beautiful in autumn as it was in springtime, the way the woods rejoiced in slow, warm death as much as vibrant new life.

He misses pressing Rhett against the rough surface of the trees, covering Rhett’s mouth with his own, running chilly fingertips underneath their many layers to press at warm flesh. He misses the rustling of the leaves beneath their feet as they moved together, pulling each other closer and closer until Link was hot and overwhelmed. He misses the moments they came together, as the leaves return to the ground, the act of dying really nothing but the spark of rebirth. The moments they didn’t talk about then, that they don’t talk about now, but are as much a part of October as falling leaves and tiny candy bars tucked in pockets, as pulling sweaters and hats out of the closet and scaring each other breathless around a fire. A part of Link will always live in the woods in October, with those two boys not yet grown into men, hoping the fire between them would burn away the dry husk of childhood. 

Link knows this is enough, that there was no path for them but this one, but he allows himself to breath in too-warm California air and miss October until his chest hurts. 

He turns the vent away from him, the cool air a poor substitute for chilly wind whipping the detritus of autumn into a tornado. It smells wrong, recycled and stale. 

“October, at last! Callooh! Callay!” He whispers to himself, trying to bring as many sense memories to mind as he can, wrapping the past and a thousand miles around himself like the flannel blanket his mother still keeps on her couch. He holds still and breathes, keeping it all as close as he can. 

“What was that, buddyroll?” 

Link huffs out a soft breath, resigned to the loss of the moment. He opens his eyes and looks over at Rhett, whose eyes are moving between the traffic in front of him and his friend in the passenger seat. One eyebrow is raised, no mocking, only inquiry. 

Link smiles, small but content. “Oh October, baptize me in leaves! Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me in split pea soup!” He keeps his gaze on the profile of Rhett’s face, backlit against the bright California sun.

Rhett’s brow knits together. “What’re you going on about?”

Link chuckles, lighthearted. “Nothing. Read it in a book once.” Rhett furrows his chin and nods, and doesn’t press. 

Link doesn’t turn his eyes, barely blinking, until Rhett feels the weight of the gaze and turns to look at him, just for a second. “What? I got something in my beard?”

“Nah.” Link blinks, and exhales. “Do you ever miss the fall back home?” 

Rhett is silent for a long moment. He keeps his eyes on the road, right leg pressing and releasing the brake in the dense traffic. Finally he looks over at Link, probably longer than is advisable. “Yeah. Sometimes, I miss it like breathing.” 

They hold each other’s eyes until there’s a beep behind them. Rhett quickly redirects his attention to his driving, knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. 

Link breathes in deeply, and lets the air escape his lips slowly. “Merry October, Rhett.”

**Author's Note:**

> I fully maintain that Link has read all of Rainbow Rowell's books. Landline is his favorite but he is definitely a little bit in love with Beth from Attachments. 
> 
> I don't really have much to say except thanks for reading, as always.


End file.
